Through the Looking Glass
by Kathryn4
Summary: 'Let your tears come out and water your soul'- The children of high society reveal their true feelings about their life.
1. Far From Perfect

**Author's Note:** This is actually a repost so some of you might have read it before.  This story actually started as a monologue for Louise but then I started getting ideas for the other characters as well so I decided to add them.

**Disclaimer:** Nothing and no one belongs to me.  Gilmore Girls belong to Amy Sherman-Palladino and the WB.

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"We cannot change anything until we accept it.  Condemnation does not liberate, it oppresses"  
- C.G. Jung

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Sometimes I wonder if I did anything in my past life to deserve this kind of punishment.  Everyday it's the same routine- wake up, go to school and then come home to a screaming match between my parents.

I know I shouldn't complain.  After all, I lead a comfortable lifestyle.  I get everything I ask for and I'm supplied with enough money to do anything I want.  I've been graced with the privilege of being born a Grant.

But nobody understands what my life is like.  It may seem picture-perfect, but my life is completely screwed.  In the Hartford social circle, I'm just another teenage debutante.  Louise Michelle Grant- another spoiled brat that's going to end up as a trophy wife to some drunken bastard.

I look around my room and scowl at the world that is my existence.  Outside my door my parents are having another one of their arguments.  I usually wouldn't be home at times like this.  I generally want to avoid this kind of thing, but I don't care anymore.

I stand up and walk over to my window.  I have a view of the entire estate.  I can see the stables, the tennis court, the pool and the garden.  It all looked perfect -something that came out of a storybook- but it does nothing to clear my resentment.  It just makes me angrier at the fact that I can't have a normal life.

My eyes wander to my desk and then onto a book, which I had placed there earlier.  The Chilton yearbook.  I pick it up and start to flip through its pages.  I stop at 'G' and scan the page for my own picture.  There I am- smiling.  The smile isn't sincere though.  It's the smile I've been taught to use ever since I was born.  The mask that I put on everyday to hide my anger.  I look at the picture before mine and frown.  It is Rory Gilmore.

She is not one of my favourite people.  We have nothing in common and, I have to admit, I'm jealous of her.  The two of us are part of this world I have grown to hate.  By being a Gilmore, she is part of Hartford's social circle but she was not brought up like I was.  She has experienced the love of a mother, the love of her grandparents and she has the ability to contain a meaningful relationship longer than a week.  Her smile was flawless and genuine.  Her eyes, bright and full of life.

I glower at her for a moment before turning the page.  Most of the smiles were a lot like mine- falsely cheery.  It disgusts me to think that our parents have corrupted all of us.  I slam the book shut and fling it at the wall.  The sound is loud and I let a small smile creep over my face as I realize the heavy book had left a mark.

There is a knock on my door and I suddenly notice that the shouting competition between my parents is over.  I walk over and unlock the door.  My mother is standing on the other side if the threshold.

"The DuGrey's are having a ball," she snaps at me.  "Blake has brought his son home from military school.  You are expected to accompany us."  Before I can reply, she walks out leaving me alone once again.

I slam the door behind her and curse.  Damn these obligation parties- they're all so fake.  Tristan's parents will act as though they were glad their son was back home and everyone else will pretend they actually care.

I suddenly have a great need to throw something.  I glance around and grab the lamp of my nightstand.  I look at for a second and then hurl it against my door.  I feel a small sense of satisfaction as it shatters, its fragments littering my spotless carpet.  That lamp was a gift from my mother.  One of her pathetic attempts to turn me into someone I am slowly becoming.

At times, I just want to escape.  Run away from Hartford and never come back.  It wasn't impossible.  Rory's mother had done it and she seems happy.  But then again, I am not Lorelai Gilmore.  We may share the same initials but I will never be her.  I'm Louise Grant and I am trapped in a cage and I don't have the will power to break free.

Once again, I glare at my surroundings.  I hate where I have ended up in this world.  I loathe my parents for what they are and how they brought me up.  I loathe the fact that I know I will end up just like them.

I let out a deep breath and collapse onto the floor.  I have had it.  I break down and let the tears flow- tears of anger and resentment… tears of bitterness and hatred… tears of desolation and melancholy.

My cell rings.  I glare at it, waiting for the ringing to cease.  It doesn't.  I scream in frustration and get up from my place on the floor.  I grab it and throw it at the ground.  I watch as it hits the hard surface before it breaks into thousands of pieces.  That was the second thing I had broken today.

My parents will probably ignore the fact that I am on the edge of insanity.  They always ignore me.  To them, I am not Louise- their daughter.  I am Louise- heiress to the Grant throne.  As long as I keep clear in the public's eyes, I am invisible to them.  I had always tried to get their attention, but it didn't take me long to figure out it was a worthless cause.  I stopped caring a long time ago.

I stare at the ceiling for a while, wondering what it would be like to come from a loving, middle-class family.  Would I still have the same attitude I have?  Would I be able to finally know what it was like to be loved, or what it's like to love?  Those things I'll probably never know.

I sigh again and sink down onto the floor.  I sit there for hours until I finally accept who I am.  I am Grant.  I have been born to privilege and with that come certain consequences.

But maybe one day, I will escape.  I'll move away from Connecticut and do something with my life that will shock Hartford's influential families.  Maybe I'll make something of myself.  Maybe someday, I will be proud to be who I am.  Maybe one day, I'll break the Grant curse and form the happy family that I crave to have.

But until that day comes, this is my life.  And I hate it.  I fucking hate it.


	2. Words Beguile Him

**Author's Note:** The second part of the whole monologue thing I'm doing.  This is Tristan's POV on what it's like to be part of the Hartford social circle.  It's not very long but remember it's a monologue, not a novel. 

**Disclaimer:** Once again, nothing belongs to me.  Gilmore Girls belongs to the WB and Amy Sherman-Palladino

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"Only five out of a hundred live their life accordingly to what they think and believe in their minds.  And four out of those five think and believe what others tell them to think and believe"  
- William Mitchell

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The first thing I remember my father saying to me is that I mustn't be a disgrace to the DuGrey name.  He told me I must do all I needed to do to honour it.  That's a bit rich coming from him.  I don't need to do anything to tarnish our family name.  He's already done that for me with his countless amount of mistresses and endless bottles of tequila.

But, I have been raised on beliefs that anyone with less power than my family was to be considered second-class and all the rest of that snobbish attitude I get from him.  Besides, that seems to be the philosophy of all the families I have grown up with.  And I have foolishly believed what they say is right.  After all, if they lie then who tells the truth?

Sometimes, I can't help but wonder why all this was happening to me.  Why do I have to follow this way of life?  Why must I ignore all those of 'lower-class' when they all look perfectly normal?

Whenever these thoughts begin to enter my mouth, I grit my teeth hold my tongue.  The words of my father come flooding back to me, _'A DuGrey does not question what he knows.'_  So I hide my questions behind my playboy persona and appear to be a non-caring tormentor of those lower than my status.

Of course, I did have my moments of weakness.  Not many people saw them but one particular person did.  Rory Gilmore.  I don't know how and I don't know why, but she can read me like a book.  She's the one person that can look past my façade and judge me for what I really am.  Or at least I thought she could.  For about fifteen minutes, she understood me.  She knew where I was coming from.  And then I had to blow it by kissing her and she ran out of the room crying.  Very smooth, don't you think?

After that, I didn't make much of an impression on her.  I went back to my old ways.  The ways of an upper-class snob, thinking I would get whatever I want and not caring who I hurt to get it.  Very stupid, I know.  But that's how I was raised.

There's a saying that goes: _the circumstances you were born to is irrelevant.  It's what you do with the gift of life that determines who you are._  I don't believe that philosophy at all.  The circumstances you're born to is relevant and it doesn't matter what you do with your life.  As long as I'm a DuGrey, I'll get opened doors and opportunities no matter where I go.  Or maybe that's not me talking.  Maybe that's just the result of what my father's sayings have done to my brain.

My path was decided for me before I could even talk.  They all took the same turns and curves as my father's.  So it doesn't really matter what I want in life.  People will look at me one day and say _'He's exactly like his father.'_  The thought makes me sick but, hell, there's nothing I can do.

I have these thoughts that if, by some miracle, I do get a choice in life, the first thing I'd do is move out of my 'so-called' home.  Move out and away.  Away from Hartford, away from Connecticut, away from the US.  Away from the planet if that was remotely possible.

And then, I come back to reality, feeling strangely disappointed.

I need a life.  A real one.  One with genuine friends instead of the phoneys and groupies I have now who only like me because of my name.  I am so sick of being what I am.  How can anyone in this goddamn society stand it?  Don't they want to know what its like to have a real trustworthy person to confined in?  Don't they want to marry for love instead of being trapped in a bloody business merger marriage that their parents have arranged for them?

A thought occurred to me.  Maybe they actually liked living this way.  God, that is sick.  It makes me want to throw up, to know that these people would prefer their lifestyle and money rather than their soul.  They'd rather live in a world of parties and glamour rather than a world of trust and friendship.

And what's going to happen when we die?  Where are we all going to go?  I'm not really a religious person since my father filled my head with his teachings instead of the Church's.  But, I've heard enough people talk to know about Heaven and Hell… now there's a funny word.  Hell.  It was supposed to be a place where your soul was tortured for all eternity.

Funny.  It seemed like I was already there.


	3. A Game of Chess

**Author's Note:** Okay here are Paris' thoughts as a child of high society.  It features a very pissed off Paris who is obsessed with being perfect so if you don't like that idea, don't read.  You have been warned.

**Disclaimer:** Must I do this every chapter?  It's getting very depressing to keep saying I don't own Gilmore Girls and that they all belong to Amy Sherman-Palladino and the WB.

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"Perfection is finally attained not when there is no longer anything to add, but when there is no longer anything to take away"  
- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

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I'm not a very interesting person.  There's nothing special about me.  I don't do the whole prancing down the hall with a skirt the size of a band-aid sort of thing.  So I don't know why people keep looking at me as I pass.  I have a massive urge to scream, 'Get a life, you morons.'  My dignity stops me from doing so.  If I didn't have that, then nothing would stop me from doing things I wouldn't normally do.

I saunter down to my locker and found the space in front of it occupied by Chilton's king and his latest slut, practically ready to procreate.  I scowl angrily.  I can usually put up with Tristan's antics but not today.  Not thinking about what I was doing, I shove the both of them out of my way, causing the two to topple on the floor.

They both stare at me from their place on the ground and I glare back at them.  And then it hits me.  What I'd just done.  Oh. My. God.  Where did that come from?  I am a firm believer of planning my life.  Every step I take, every word that comes out of my mouth has been planned.  That push was not part of the plan.  I was going to go to my locker and then go home.  So where did that come from?

If life were a game of chess, I would probably win every match.  It's important to map out your next move and I do that every day of my life.  A sudden movement, like the one I had just pulled, disturbs the balance of my existence, knocking over the chessboard, toppling the pieces onto the floor.

They were still staring at me.  Tristan and his girlfriend were still in shock.  Everybody in the hallway was stopping and gawking.  The urge is returning.  I open my mouth to scream but stop myself in time.  I cannot move.  Literally.  It feels as though my feet are glued permanently to the floor.  Ha.  The floor.  Now there's an interesting coincidence.  It's tiled black and white, like a chessboard.  Maybe that's where I got this whole planning-my-life thing.  When I was little, my grandfather taught me how to play chess.  I was just a careless little girl back then.  I understood the rules but I didn't put any thought into my movements.  I carelessly moved my pawns, bishops and castles and let each one get swept away by my opponent.

And then I came across this phrase: 'To stay ahead, you must have your next idea waiting in the wings'.  I suppose it was then I got my motivation to always be number one.  I wouldn't let anything or anyone stand in my way.  It became an obsession.  Being perfect, getting top grades.  I needed to know where I stood in this world and I did not want to settle for anything less than the top.

From then on, no one was able to compete with me.  No one.  And it sucked.  Being the best means beating the best and there is not a single student at Chilton who is capable of being my competition.  Except maybe Rory Gilmore.  It's funny.  I always wanted someone to compete with and when I got it, I wished for her to go away.  Be careful what you wish for.  I won't make that mistake again.

And now we're back to my present problem.  The hall is silent and I haven't moved.  Tristan is still on the floor, gaping at me.  It was weird.  I was getting an odd feeling from what I'd just done.  I wasn't sure what it was.

Finally, I just open my locker, grab the books I need and head for the front hall.  People are starting to move now, whispering quietly among themselves, pointing at me.  I can't even begin to imagine what they're saying.  The mind works funny like that.

I wonder how long it's been since I pushed Chilton's golden boy.  It felt like hours.

"Did you hear Annie?" a girl whispered frantically.  "Paris Geller pushed Tristan DuGrey like five minutes ago."

Five minutes?  That was a pretty long time for the halls of Chilton to stay quiet.

"I know, Lauren," her friend replied.  "That girl has some psychotic issues to deal with."

I breeze by them without giving them a second glance.  Psychotic, huh?  Was that what that feeling was?

Strange- it felt more like satisfaction.


	4. On Broken Wings

**Author's Note:** Okay here are Madeline's views on things and it's different.  It's a letter to her brother.  In 'Concert Interrupts' she mentioned she had a brother.  This one is not as bitter as the others and Madeline is out of character.  Another thing, I was going to write up my own original story but I came across this e-mail and it was too perfect.  So I copied it word-for-word, only changing the names.  Is this plagiarism?  Not really since I've told you that I copied it and I'm not making any money from it so what difference does it make?

**Disclaimer:** If I actually owned the series would I be here, writing stories about them?  I think not.  And as I said, the idea for this story was inspired from an e-mail so if it seems familiar, don't be surprised.

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'The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone'  
- Harriet Beecher Stowe

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Dear Patrick,

I was then an only child who had everything I could ever want.  But even a pretty, spoiled and rich kid could get lonely once in a while so when Mom told me that she was pregnant, I was ecstatic.  I imagined how wonderful you would be and how we'd always be together and how much you would look like me.

So, when you were born, I looked at your tiny hands and I showed you proudly to my friends.  They would touch you and sometimes pinch you but you never reacted. When you were five months old, some things began to bother Mom.  You seemed so unmoving and numb, and your cry sounded odd, almost like a kitten's.

So, we brought you to many doctors.  The thirteenth doctor who looked at you quietly said you have the 'cry du chat' syndrome.  When I asked what that meant, he looked at me with pity and softly said, "Your brother will never walk or talk."

The doctor told us that it is a condition that afflicts one in 50,000 babies, rendering victims retarded. Mom was shocked and I was furious.  I thought it was unfair.

When we went home, Mom took you in her arms and cried.  I looked at you and realized that word will get around that you're not normal.  So to hold on to my popularity, I did the unthinkable.  I disowned you.  Mom and Dad didn't know but I steeled myself not to love you as you grew.

Mom and Dad showered you with love and attention and that made me bitter.  And as the years passed, that bitterness turned to anger, and then hate.

Mom never gave up on you.  She knew she had to do it for your sake.  Every time she put your toys down, you would roll instead of crawl. I watched her heart break every time she took away your toys and strapped your tummy with foam so you couldn't roll.  You'd struggle and you'd cry in that pitiful way, the cry of the kitten.  But she still didn't give up.

And then one day, you defied what all your doctors said.  You crawled.  When Mom saw this, she knew that you would eventually walk.  So when you were still crawling at age four, she'd put you on the grass with only your diapers on knowing that you hate the feel of the grass on your skin.  Then she'd leave you there.

I would sometimes watch from the window and smile at your discomfort.  You would crawl to the sidewalk and Mom would put you back.  Again and again, Mom repeated this on the lawn.  Until one day, Mom saw you pull yourself up and toddle off the grass as fast as your little legs could carry you.  Laughing and crying, she shouted for Dad and I to come. Dad hugged you, crying openly.  I watched from my bedroom window this heartbreaking scene.

Over the years, Mom taught you to speak, read and write.  From then on, I would sometimes see you walk outside, smell the flowers, marvel at the birds, or just smile at no one.

I began to see the beauty of the world around me, the simplicity of life and the wonders to this world through your eyes.  It was then that I realized that you were my brother and no matter how much I tried to hate you, I couldn't because I had grown to love you.  During the next few days, we again became acquainted with each other.  I would buy you toys and give all the love that a sister could ever give to her brother.  And you would reward me by smiling and hugging me. 

But I guess, you were never really meant for us.

On your tenth birthday, you felt severe headaches.  The doctor's diagnosis?  Leukaemia.  Mom gasped and Dad held her, while I fought hard to keep my tears from falling.  At that moment, I loved you all the more.  I couldn't even bear to leave your side.

Then the doctors told us that your only hope was to have bone marrow transplant.  You became the subject of a nationwide donor search.  When at last we found the right match, you were too sick, and the doctor reluctantly ruled out the operations.

Since then, you underwent chemotherapy and radiation. Even at the end, you continued to pursue life.  Just a month before you died, you made me draw up a list of things you wanted to do when you got out of the hospital.

Two days after the list was completed, you asked the doctors to send you home.  There, we ate ice-cream and cake, ran across the grass, flew kites, went fishing, took pictures of one another and let the balloons fly.

I remember the last conversation we had.  You said that if you die, and if I needed help, I could send you a note to heaven by tying the note on the string of a balloon and letting it fly.  When you said this, I started crying.  Then you hugged me.  Then again, for the last time, you got sick.

That last night, you asked for water, a back rub and a cuddle.  Finally, you went into seizure with tears streaming down your face.  Later, at the hospital, you struggled to talk but the words wouldn't come.  I know what you wanted to say.

"I hear you," I whispered.  And for the last time I said, "I'll always love you and I will never forget you.  Don't be afraid.  You'll soon be with God in heaven."  Then, with my tears flowing freely, I watched the bravest boy I had ever known finally stop breathing.

Dad, Mom and I cried until felt as if there were no more tears left.  You were finally gone, leaving us behind.  From then on, you were my source of inspiration.  You showed me how to love life and live life to the fullest.  With your simplicity and honesty, you showed me a world full of love and caring.  And you made me realize that the most important thing in this life is to continue loving without asking why or how and without setting any limit.  With this letter and this balloon, I fly my love to you.  Thank you my little brother for all these.

Love, Madeline


End file.
